789 026415 0001
by Commander Zia
Summary: Morino Ibiki never noticed just how funny everything was until he spent thirty-seven days of his life chained to the slimy wall of a civilian cellar.


Seventh 2010-Dropbox-Cleanout post. Back a while during my Ibiki binge, one of the few fics that actually reached some excuse for an ending. Enjoy~

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**789-026415-0001**

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Morino Ibiki never noticed just how funny everything was until he spent thirty-seven days of his life chained to the slimy wall of a six foot by six foot civilian cellar. The room had been dark, a single gas lamp hanging from the low ceiling letting only the biggest of gestures be known, and had only been large enough to hold two people. Which, as it turned out, was the perfect number of people, at least as far as his captor's plans were concerned. Ibiki himself would have been satisfied with a room small enough for only one, maybe then he could have starved to death in peace; but so was the way of it. Just him, his tormentor, and the acrid smell of death. Thirty-odd days and before that three years as a working ninja, and one would think they'd have acclimated to the horrid fumes of dried blood and rotting flesh. But it had smelled just as horrid from the first to the last minute, and for days afterwards he hadn't been able to smell anything else, not until the harsh, sterile hospital smell finally took up residence.

In any case, Morino Ibiki was a sensible man, no matter what they all said. Amusement comes in many forms and is caused by many different things. What brought one man pleasure could bring another to his knees- this was the nature of Ibiki's pleasure, at least in a materialistic sort of way. Like most people he needed love, acceptance, whatever, but that could all wait. He always had the time to sit down, take out a nice bottle of the honey-colored liquid, and poor his heart out to an empty room. In a more real sense what he wanted was control. Here. Now. As a child he'd always been a control-freak, though more in an attention-seeking daredevil way, more in the 'look at me don't I make you laugh?' Ibiki found it was much like Umino Iruka or Uzumaki Naruto, only there was no real trauma to label the cause. He was more like Uchiha Obito or Yamanaka Ino. But now, now it was much more real. Ibiki really was glad he was so tall, as every time another man towered over him he had the impulse to flinch and bolt, or to curl up into himself and disappear. Of course he never did, but the feelings did absolutely nothing for his self-confidence which, as it turned out, was surprisingly low.

No one would have guessed, and Ibiki wasn't about to give them the chance, but Ibiki hadn't much belief in himself at all. He knew he was good at his job, of course, and his statistics were enough to knock a jounin ANBU off their polished little feet, but still. Every morning he looked in the mirror and saw a man who he couldn't possibly be. Because Morino Ibiki wasn't a scared thirty-something, his mouth in a constant scowl with his collar flipped up to hide his face from the crowd. Yamanaka Inoichi had told him, after his ANBU examination, that his 'inner-self', the personality one created in their mind subconsciously, one's own idea of themselves, hadn't a scar on his body, and he'd looked a bit younger, a bit cleaner, and his mouth had been crooked in a cheesy, off-hand smile. Ibiki liked to think he didn't lie to himself, but such a thing would be a lie as well, so again he found himself stuck. But the truth hurt, ninja training be damned. That's why, every November twenty-fourth, as the sun began to set over the Hokage monument, Ibiki would bring out a bottle of especially fancy wine and pour four glasses worth, pick his up, and make a toast. Then he'd drink his own, then Hota's, then Hachi's, and then usually he'd leave Yanoko's untouched. The man had never touched a drop of alcohol, even as his pre-teen students forced him to bring a can or two of beer to their midnight training sessions, 'just to liven it up'.

The fact that no one seemed to know about this part of him, sans Yamanaka Inoichi, that was one thing that made Ibiki particularly amused. Portrayal of indestructibility was a ninja's goal, but that didn't mean it was easy. Hatake Kakashi was a case example, his poor, if understandable, attempts at uncaring were near translucent to any half-trained eye. The academy just wasn't trying anymore, seemed to give up entirely after the Kyuubi attack, and really hadn't been trying before that either. Even in his own years in the academy the practical knowledge and experience he'd graduated with had been abysmal. Even with his eccentric genin instructor, the same man who'd given them dozens of crash-courses entitled things like 'Surviving Genjutsu People Actually Use' and 'Assuming We Don't Have Any Chakra Left After All,' he had been forced to learn almost everything on call. Or, as he knew but didn't like to think about, during those thirty-seven days underground. It was actually rather hilarious, when one thought about it; the fact that academy instructors somehow thought that not preparing their students for the real world would help them live better, more innocent lives. Shorter, maybe, but not better. Certainly not innocent.

Ibiki had been, for these very reasons, totally unprepared when he'd found himself cornered, Hachi and their commander already dead and Hota clutching his shoulder as she sobbed for what must have been the first time in her life. His parents had died but that was when he was only two, he'd never known them long enough to form any sort of a bond, and as much as he hated to admit it his team had been his first real connection. His first real loss. Ibiki hadn't even been able to cry, his brain had just shut down, even when Hota was finally sliced in half, and that was probably the only reason he hadn't said something, anything about Konoha. And it wasn't as if they had any information that anyone would want anyways. Their code turned out to be a dud, the second of the three groups sent for the information being the one to receive the real message. His team had been the first, the team sent with the false number code '789-026415-0001.' It made him laugh. No one else had even gotten injured, really, only a small broken wrist for the leader of the third group, the second dud-code team. And look at them. Look at what was left. It was funny how little people seemed to realize just how cutthroat Konoha really was. It was dog-eat-dog, and Konoha was a warrior like everyone else, no matter how many frills and bows it tried to disguise itself with.

Lots of people seemed to think Morino Ibiki was more than a little bit mad. Maybe they were right, he wouldn't really know. After all, the crazy always believe that they are the sane ones, and that it's everybody else who is in the wrong. Maybe he was really so far off his rocker he just couldn't tell. Inoichi wouldn't have noticed, he was as crazy as the rest of them, all members of T&I were. Every single one of them had a sadistic streak, no matter how thin, and all of them really had no one but each other. T&I was almost like a strange sort of family, all of them caring for the others when they needed it in their own, antisocial, subtle way. Every one of them had a hatred and distrust in the system, and most of all a disapproval in how soft Konoha could be. Each of them knew what happened when one wasn't properly prepared. Kichi had lost her sight, Sadao his childhood, Inoichi his wife. Ibiki had lost… so much he couldn't find a single word to put to it. It was their fault, yes, but Konoha had done nothing to help. The apology letters they'd been sent in the mail, the fake sounding, fill-in-the-blank 'letters of regret' were insulting, the downtrodden look in the Hokage's eyes aggravating. Every single one of them would have become instructors themselves if they'd had the external personality and Konoha hadn't needed them for other jobs. There was a reason they were the only people who could squeeze information out of even the most tight-lipped spies.

Morino Ibiki compared life to imprisonment. Not in a self-pitying, trapped-in-himself way, but in the basic ideas. It was dark damp, and he never knew when the next meal or interrogation would come. Time passes but never steadily; things happen but he can't always remember. Only in life, rather than a set one or two interrogators there was a whole cast, an alternating list of people to cause trouble and rile up emotions and poke and prod. Only in life there were people sitting beside him, chained to the same wall under the same dank ceiling, the grimace-lines on their face illuminated by the same orange gas-lamp light. There were other people to look at and, when they really thought about their situation and how utterly ridiculous it was, to laugh with. Ibiki had never been much of a sentimental person, but then again, hadn't he?

Ibiki was surprisingly glad this cellar could fit more than two people.


End file.
